The Adventures of a Widow Part 30

She was wholly serious. She forgot to look upon the humorous side of Mr.

Prawle's action; his poem, so called, addressed her jarred nerves and wounded spirit as a piece of aggravating impudence. The whole event of his visit seemed like a final jeer from the sarcastic episode recently ended.

He regarded her now with a sorrowful astonishment. "You--you wish me to read no more!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, if you please," said Pauline, controlling her impatience as best she could.

"But I--I wrote it especially _for_ you!" he proceeded. "I have put my soul into it! I consider it in many ways the most perfect thing that I have _ever_ done. I intended to include it in my forthcoming volume, 'Moonbeams and Mountain-Peaks,' under the t.i.tle of 'Her Vindication.'

Even the grossly material poetic mind of Arthur Trevor, to whom I read it a few hours ago, admitted its sublimity, its spirituality!"

"I will admit both, also," said Pauline, whose mood grew less and less tolerant of this self-poised fatuity. "Only, I must add, Mr. Prawle, that it would have been better taste for you to have left this exasperating affair untouched by your somewhat saintly muse. And I shall furthermore request that you do not include the lines in your 'Moonbeams and Hill-Tops,' or"--

"Mountain-Peaks!" corrected Mr. Prawle, rising with a visible shudder.

"Oh, Mrs. Varick," he went on, "I see with great pain that you are a most haughty and ungenerous lady! You--you have smitten me with a fearful disappointment! I came here br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the loftiest human sympathy! I believed that to-day would be a turning-point in my existence. I confidently trusted that after hearing my poem there would be no further obstacle in my career of greatness!"

Pauline now slowly left her seat. Unhappy as she was, there could be no resisting such magnificent opportunities of amus.e.m.e.nt as were now presented to her.

"Your career of greatness?" she quietly repeated. "Did I hear you properly, Mr. Prawle?"

Her guest was refolding his ma.n.u.script with an aggrieved and perturbed air. As he put the paper within a breast-pocket he rolled his dark eyes toward Pauline with infinite solemnity.

"You doubt, then," he exclaimed, "that I am born to be great--supremely great? Ah, there is no need for me to put that question now! I had thought otherwise _before_ ... when you smiled upon me, when you seemed to have read my poems, to be familiar with my growing fame!"

"You mistake," said Pauline: "I never meant to show you that I had read your poems. If I smiled upon you, Mr. Prawle, it was from courtesy only."

"Horrible!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the young poet. He clasped his hands together in a somewhat theatrically despairing way, and for an instant lowered his head. "I--I thought that you were prepared to indorse, to a.s.sist my genius!" he soon proceeded, levelling a look of strong appeal at Pauline. "I thought that you had separated my poetic veracity from the sham of Trevor and Corson! I--I thought, Mrs. Varick, that in you I had found a true wors.h.i.+pper!"

Pauline was at last amused. "I usually reserve my wors.h.i.+p for divinities, Mr. Prawle," she said, "and I have found but a few of these in all the history of literature."

"I see!" cried her companion, "you mean that I am _not_ a genius!"

"I did not say so. But you have given me no proof of it."

"No proof of it! What was the poem I have just read?"

"It was ... well, it was resonant. But I objected to it, as I have told you, on personal grounds." As she went on, Pauline tried to deal with a rather insubordinate smile of keen, sarcastic enjoyment.

"So you really think," she continued, "that you possess absolute genius?"

"I am certain of it!" cried Mr. Prawle.

"That is a very pleasant mental condition."

"Do _you_ doubt it?... Ah! I see but too plainly that you do!"

"Frankly," said Pauline, "I do."

Mr. Prawle flung both his hands towards the ceiling. "It is Kindelon's work," he cried, with an effect of very plaintive lamentation. "Kindelon is among those who yet oppose me."

"Mr. Kindelon is not responsible for my opinions," said Pauline.

"However, you probably have other opponents?"

"Their name is legion! But why should I care? Do you join their ranks?... Well, Sh.e.l.ley almost died because of being misunderstood! I had hoped that you would a.s.sist me in--yes, in the publication of my book of poems, Mrs. Varick. I do not mean that I wrote to you, for this reason, the poem which you have just refused to hear me read. Far from it! I only mean that I have cherished the idea of securing in you a patron. Yes, a patron! I am without means to bring forth 'Moonbeams and Mountain-Peaks.' And I had hoped that after hearing me read what I have already told you is my most n.o.bly able creation, you would ... consent, as a lover of art, of genius, of...."

"I understand," said Pauline. "You wish me to a.s.sist you in the publication of your volume." She was smiling, though a trifle wearily.

"Well, Mr. Prawle, I will do it."

"You will do it!"

"Yes. You shall have whatever cheque you write me for...." She approached Prawle and laid her hand upon his arm. "But you must promise me to destroy 'Her Vindication'--not even to think of publis.h.i.+ng it. Do you?"

"Yes ... if you insist."

"I do insist.... Well, as I said, write to me for the amount required."

Prawle momentarily smiled, as if from extreme grat.i.tude. And then the smile abruptly faded from his pale face. "I will promise!" he declared.

"But ... oh, it is so horrible to think that you help me from no real appreciation of my great gifts--that you do so only from _charity_!"

"Charity is not by any means a despicable virtue."

"From a great millionaire to a poor poet--yes! The poet has a sensitive soul! He wants to be loved for his verses, for his inspiration, if he is a true poet like myself!"

"And you believe yourself a true poet, Mr. Prawle?"

"I?"

It is impossible to portray the majesty of Mr. Prawle's monosyllabic p.r.o.noun. "If I am not great," he enunciated slowly, "then no one _has_ been or ever _will_ be great. I have a divine mission. A truly and positively divine mission."

Pauline gave a little inscrutable nod. "A divine mission is a very nice thing to have. I hope you will execute it."

"I _shall_ execute it!" cried Mr. Prawle. "All the poets, on every side of me, are singing about The Past. I, and I alone, sing of The Future. I set evolution to music ... what other poet has done that? I wrest from Buckle, Spencer, Tyndall, Huxley--from all the grand modern thinkers, in fact--their poetic and yet rationalistic elements! If you had heard my poem to yourself _through_--if you had had the patience, I--I may add, the kindliness, to hear it through, you would have seen that my terminus was in accord with the prevailing theories of Herbert Spencer's n.o.ble philosophy...."

"Shall I ever cling to or love Herbert Spencer again?" thought Pauline, "when I see him made the s.h.i.+bboleth of such intellectual charlatans as this?"

"In accord," continued Mr. Prawle, "with everything that is progressive and unbigoted. I finished with an allusion to the Religion of Humanity.

I usually do, in all my poems. That is what makes them so unique, so incomparable!"

Pauline held out her hand in distinct token of farewell.

"Belief in one's self is a very saving quality," she said. "I congratulate you upon it."

Mr. Prawle shrank offendedly toward the door. "You dismiss me!" he burst forth. "After I have bared my inmost soul to you, you _dismiss_ me!"

Pauline tossed her head, either from irritation or semi-diversion. "Ah, you take too much for granted!" she said, withdrawing her hand.

Mr. Prawle had raised himself to his full height. "I refuse your a.s.sistance!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "You offer it as you would offer it to a pensioner--a beggar! And you--_you_, have a.s.sumed the right of entertaining and fostering literary talent! I scarcely addressed you at your last reception ... I _waited_. I supposed that in spite of Kindelon's known enmity, some of your guests must have told you how immense were my deserts--how they transcended the morbid horrors of Rufus Corson, and the glaring superficialities of Arthur Trevor. But I discover, plainly enough, that you are impervious to all intellectual greatness of claim. I will accept _no_ aid from you!--none whatever! But one day, when the name of Leander Prawle is a s.h.i.+ning and a regnant one, you will perhaps remember how miserably you failed to value his merits, and shrink with shame at the thought of your own pitiable misjudgment!..."

"Thank Heaven that monstrosity of literary vanity has removed itself!"

thought Pauline, a little later, when Leander Prawle had been heard very decisively to close the outer hall-door. "And now I must dwell no longer on trifles--I must concern myself with far weightier matters."